


BBC Sherlock: A Case of Separation

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23031187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: Post S-4 While Sherlock's and John's separate and busy lives often keep them from working cases together, both men understand and accept this. But when Sherlock has not yet returned from his most recent investigation, John becomes concerned about his friend's prolonged absence and starts his own investigation.(Updated since the unprecedented impact of the COVID-19 outbreak.)Sherlock & John Friendship/Mystery - Three chapters. Words: 11,123 Published: 2/17/2020 - Complete
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Molly Hooper & John Watson, Mrs. Hudson & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**88**88**

**Chapter 1**

**88**88**

**September 2020**

John Watson trained his eyes on his active four-year-old daughter but his mind was elsewhere. While Rosie got reacquainted with her friends she hadn't seen for many months, he stood in a location that was somewhat apart from the other parents. He had got used to practicing social distancing during the coronavirus outbreak and even though he could have chosen stand closer to the other parents as long as he wore a face mask, he preferred the view; Not only did he not need to wear his mask at this distance, it offered him a full sweep of the park's playground. Also, he liked using Rosie's playtime to think.

Lately, his thinking time had become worrying time. "God knows," John huffed to himself as Rosie charged toward him at full gallop, her eyes bright behind her sunshine yellow face mask. "Just when you think you've figured him out, he pulls another— _ummph!_ " He staggered from the impact of his daughter's energetic tackle. "Careful now _,_ Rosie! You nearly knocked me over—"

"Sorry, Daddy," Rosie slipped off her face mask and peered up at him; her expression sympathetic, her face flushed from fleeing her playmates. "But I'm _safe_ , now. You know: mummies and daddies are safe zones!"

"Right. Mummies and daddies. Safe zones," John agreed behind a soft smile. _If only that were_ forever _true._

Rosie gave him a peculiar look and asked out of the blue, "Talkin' 'bout Unkel Sher-kel, 'gain?" Her dad's silence prompted her to push, "'Can tell, Daddy, 'cauz your voice gets like that."

John cleared his throat. "Yes." He hadn't meant to speak his thoughts aloud, much less have Rosie hear them. Without elaborating, he leant over to give her a hug, and changed the subject. "Well, my lamb, let's wipe down your hands," he said, pulling out the sanitizer from the small rucksack slung across his shoulder. "Have you finished playing with your friends?"

"No, silly!" She giggled and waited until her hands were clean before latching her arms around his neck to hug him. "It's mask break and time out, now. Look. _See!_ "

John yielded to her embrace and kissed the top of her head before she released him. "Right. Let's have a look-see, then, my smart girl."

He scanned the greensward edged with shady sycamores. The other children had removed their masks and were taking a temporary time out, sitting down on benches beside their mothers or minders, enjoying refreshments.

"I see, Rosie. Mask break, time out _and_ snack time!" He deposited the rucksack on the ground. "Would you like some apple slices—?"

"Wat-tah, please."

John uncapped the thermos bottle, crouched down, and handed it to her. Rosie drank, eyeing her father all the while. Three hurried gulps were enough and she gave it back to him.

"You are dis-pointed!" Rosie blurted, her blue eyes wide.

"Huh?" John squinted in surprise. "Why would I be disappointed? I only say that when you misbehave…"

"No, not at me." She shook her head vigorously; her long plaits whipped her shoulders. "With _him_. 'cauz he missed my birthday."

John was taken aback by Rosie's assertion. He stood, replaced the cap, and returned the thermos to the rucksack. He did not look at his daughter. That she was right unnerved him. _It's not like him. Sherlock had been there for Rosie's first and, until seven months ago, had never missed a birthday. Even if they couldn't have a party this year, a least he would have called. Worse. It's been eleven months since anyone's seen him…_

Young as she was, Rosie was perceptive. She was so much like her mother in her ability to read people, but different, as well. An empathetic spirit—some children were born that way—she showed tenderness to those who were injured or weak—a wounded bird, an unhappy friend, a newborn kitten. She knew how to comfort, sometimes with her soothing voice, other times with her delicate caresses.

His daughter had soothed him often enough on those evenings when his thoughts turned to Mary. Sensing his melancholy, Rosie would join him on the sofa, climb into his lap, and give his cheeks gentle kisses or pat his head before returning, to her playthings.

Consoling her father was her forte, even now in the park. "Don't worry, Daddy. He'll be back."

_Worry_. John had enough worries raising a child alone in these unprecedented times. When he was not focused on parenting, work at the surgery—especially the worrisome months dealing with COVID-19—filled his time. Although he had less spare time for occasional dates with interesting women, those had been respites of sorts, until everyone stopped socializing in person. Even so, so far he hadn't been looking to replace Mary. Each date had reminded him he wasn't ready for that. At least, they had been distractions from the usual worries—until the pandemic struck.

Worrying about his remarkable friend was another matter. Over the past four years, Sherlock had worked many successful cases without him. And after, when Sherlock shared his accounts of such investigations, John listened in admiration. While sometimes it seemed that Sherlock made calculated risks— _calculated_ being the key word—the great detective usually returned in due time and with solutions in hand, proving his calculations spot on. John had no cause to worry.

But this time seemed different and John _had_ become worried by Sherlock's prolonged absence. As the pandemic spread he wondered where his friend might be and if he had been able to stay isolated from the virus. Whenever Rosie and he spent a special day—like today—in a London park, it reminded him how much time had passed since he had last seen or spoken to his friend.

Rosie's confidence in her godfather was reassuring in some ways. It may have explained why Rosie had never asked him where Sherlock was or when he'd be coming home. John hadn't brought it up, not wanting to worry _her._ "I'm sure he will be back, Rosie."

"I _know_ he will. He _promised_ me."

John shifted uneasily at his old fear of believing Sherlock's impossible promises. "He _promised_ you? When was _that_?" he asked, attempting to sound nonchalant.

"The last time," she shrugged as if her answer should be clear to him. "But _not_ for my party. He told me he was gonna miss that, but he said he'd _try_ to be back _aftah_ … Now, it's _aftah_ my birthday, he'll be back. I know he will—oh, see! My friends are playing again! 'Bye, Daddy," She pulled up her mask over her nose and raced off, her honey-colored plaits flying behind her as she rejoined the game.

_...he'll be back….I know he will…_

Not that he expected Rosie's words to materialize his friend out of thin air, but John couldn't help himself. He turned around to check the park entrance. He didn't see the familiar figure among the assorted masked men, women, and children entering the park. Disappointed again and simply missing his friend, John turned around and returned to his thoughts. Eleven months earlier, while Rosie and he were in the same park, seasonally painted in golds, rusts, and reds, Sherlock had "popped by" without prior warning. Back then, John had not been surprised. Sherlock had been making these unannounced visits—meeting them in parks—since Rosie was two. Such encounters were never prearranged and John was never certain if and when Sherlock _might_ show up, but the possibility existed and John had got used to the strong odds of _might._

**88**88**

The very first time Sherlock had made his appearance in the park, it had been a warm spring day. John had taken Rosie to the tiny tot's sandbox, where a little boy, approximately Rosie's age, had been shoveling sand into his pail. His mother hovered nearby talking on her mobile. At John's urgings, Rosie had taken up her shovel in her dimpled fist, but she had been more interested in watching the little boy than digging for herself.

"I see your daughter's still in her parallel-play stage."

John had looked up in surprise at hearing the familiar voice behind him. "Huh?"

"Observe, John. They don't interact," Sherlock had explained. "According to child-development research _, 'this is the form of play in which children remain adjacent to each other, but do not try to influence one another's behavior._ '"

"I know what parallel play is," John had huffed under furrowed brows. "I'm just surprised to see _you_ here in this out-of- _your-_ way park."

"Surprised? Why?" Sherlock had shrugged and looked around, his face feigning innocence. "It's perfect park weather; Londoners are out enjoying the spring blooms, I am a Londoner. Hello, Rosie," Sherlock had given Rosie a wiggly-fingers wave.

In response, the two-year-old had grinned at her godfather with a drooling smile, cooing, "Hah-wo, K' Sshu-och."

John, too, had grinned, but at Sherlock's ridiculous comeback. He had not expected Sherlock to withhold his actual reason for tracking them down. That he had was peculiar.

Aware John was waiting for a different explanation Sherlock had added, "The odds of encountering someone you know in any park on a day like today are actually quite strong, John. High. Astronomical, in fact."

"Astronomical? Is that so, then?" John had looked askance at his friend, incredulity peaking in his voice, and licked his lips to mask his grin. "Still, what are the chances?"

"John, if I wanted to debate probability, I'd hold court with my brother!" Sherlock had deflected in his signature tetchy tone. "Now let's show Rosie how to play with others—a concept Mycroft and I failed to grasp at this or any age _._ " Sitting down beside her in the sand, Sherlock gently helped Rosie dig with her shovel.

"Well, then," John had chuckled to himself, "that _does_ explain a lot."

6**6

These occasional meet-ups became a regular thing, despite being unpredictable and random. Sherlock had always held that scheduled forays in public made a person an easy target—that was how he caught many a criminal. So his "accidental" visits—due to his wary ways—were not out of character for the genius detective.

John, on the other hand, had fewer qualms about following schedules. A reliable system made child-rearing easier. Going to the park was one such routine. While Erika, their long-term childminder, regularly took Rosie to meet her playmates in the suburban parks near his flat, John would change it up a bit. On his days off from the surgery or when he took the early shift, he sought special father-daughter time sans childminder—as recommended by his therapist—by taking Rosie to London parks. Sometimes he and Rosie would go to grassed areas in Central London or to West London to enjoy the playgrounds, flower gardens and tree-edged lawns. By comparison to his ordered life, John's choice of parks was serendipitous, which is why each chance encounter with Sherlock was mystifying.

These park appearances continued especially when Rosie had outgrown her early toddler years. More capable of interactive play, like hide-n-seek among the _Peter Pan_ teepees and the giant pirate ship at the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Playground, she would give enthusiastic squeals when she found her godfather pressed against the ship's bow pretending to be a wooden figurehead. In St. James, another favorite park, Rosie was delighted whenever her lively uncle joined her in the sandbox to build elaborate sand castles or pushed her on swings or stood ready to catch her in the climbing areas.

John would watch and wonder what methods Sherlock had used to find them. If he was not employing some tracking or face-recognition software by hacking into the CCTV cameras or utilizing a GPS location app connected—unbeknownst to John—to John's mobile, there was probably an algorithm that guided Sherlock to the right park at the right time, a rhythm only Sherlock knew. The tempo changed too; sometime the visits were closer together, sometimes farther apart, but no matter what, there was a dependability to it—Sherlock would eventually bump into them in some park.

How Sherlock did it was one thing. The real mystery was why?

There seemed no purpose to these visits other than companionship—which was a purpose in itself. However, John wouldn't have put it past the scientist—who also proved to be a master at the fine art of play—to be tracking Rosie's development milestones for a research project.

Oddly, during these "pop ins," Sherlock refrained from work-talk. John remembered well that there were challenging cases and ongoing mysteries waiting to be solved—sometimes John was working the case alongside Sherlock—but during "playtime with the Watsons" the detective had imposed a moratorium on discussing them. Had he worried that Rosie would overhear something disturbing? Probably, but perhaps more evident had been that Sherlock relished the "escape" just as much as they had. Play was freeing, refreshing, and gave joy in a troubling world.

Who could really know the reasons—as logical as they might be—for Sherlock's participation in this ritual of play? It was Sherlock Holmes, after all. And yet, there was one explanation—perhaps the most important one—that John thought might be his friend's primary impetus. Since Mary had saved Sherlock's life—"conferring a value on it"—by sacrificing her own, the man she had _saved_ honored her by being a regular presence in both Rosie and John's lives. Perhaps this was how Sherlock—the _reformed_ Sherlock—had chosen to spend that "currency." Whatever his reasons, John welcomed his friend's company whenever Sherlock gave it. And he had got so used to the surprise meetings in the park that he had begun to take them a bit for granted.

**88**88**

**October 2019**

Eleven months ago, on that brisk fall day in the park, John had been busy following Rosie around the playground. At three years and eight months, she showed budding interest in her playmates. When Sherlock had showed up, it had been late for the usual playtime encounter. They were readying to leave. As John slung Rosie's rucksack over his shoulder, he noticed that Sherlock appeared fidgety, distracted—signs suggesting something was more pressing on his mind, something he found hard to let go or that wouldn't let him go.

"Bye, bye, Unkel Sher-kel," using her godfather's nickname, Rosie tugged on his greatcoat, and displayed all twenty of her primary teeth in her widest smile. She twirled her little hand, a waving gesture she had mastered as a baby. "Playtime's ofer, now. Next time, okay?"

Sherlock had glanced toward the park exit before looking down at her upturned face. "Next time," he flashed a bright smile. Stooping down to hug Rosie, he whispered something that made her giggle and patted her head. When he straightened and turned toward John, he appeared about to say something more. In an instant Sherlock's face had changed, his expression neutralized.

"Sherlock?" John puzzled, curious about his friend's abrupt reticence. "You okay?"

"Nevermind. A thought has occurred…must be off to attend to it," Sherlock replied in a dismissive voice, abandoning his attempt to shake John's hand when he saw Rosie had curled her hand in her father's for warmth. The little girl's trusting gesture raised a scant half-smile on Sherlock's serious face.

"Goodbye, Rosie," he said and pulled up his collar against the cold evening air. John narrowed his eyes and waited until Sherlock met his gaze. Their eyes met, but the glance was too brief for John to glean anything before Sherlock had looked away. "Later..., John," he nodded again and was gone in the growing darkness.

It troubled John in hindsight that he hadn't asked Sherlock why he had been so preoccupied that evening in the park. Had he missed a clue that something was amiss when Sherlock tried to shake hands, when Sherlock avoided his glance? He should have lifted Sherlock's moratorium on discussing his work and encouraged his friend to speak freely. In fairness, John had expected that Sherlock would text him to meet had the detective wanted to talk about a case. When no such text came, he had dismissed his perception of Sherlock's mood as a nonissue.

John had not imagined then that their encounter in the park would be his last glimpse of Sherlock for such a long time.

**88**88**


	2. Chapter 2

**BBC Sherlock: A Case of Separation**

**88**88**

**October 2019**

A short while after that autumn park visit, Sherlock had texted John: _Off on a case, SH._

A text like this was no longer unusual. Whether it was due to John's long-ago berating, _"One word, Sherlock, that is all I would have needed!"_ or for Rosie's sake if she asked for him, Sherlock shared what he could, when he could, and only if his absence might be noticed

_Need help_? John had texted back.

_Some other time - SH_

John had grunted with mild disappointment before replying. _Right_.

Ignoring his own 'itch' to join him, John understood his friend's need for a stimulating case _—_ the vivid memory from those days long past came to mind: a man holding a harpoon and yelling: _"A rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad, I need a case!"_ John sighed. His friend may have appeared to have changed, but he knew better. Scratch the surface and Sherlock's intense drive was _always_ there. _Better something stimulating that brain,_ John concluded, _than the alternative._

After that, John had turned his attention to Rosie's preschool schedules and playdates and his patients at the surgery. As the weeks passed, if John had occasional thoughts about Sherlock and his case, they were more akin to a trickling undercurrent than a babbling brook.

Several months later, however, when Sherlock had not returned from his off-on-a-case absence and no one had heard from him, John's curiosity grew. Cross-checking details with Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson, along with some of Sherlock's homeless network whom John knew, confirmed his concern that this might be irregular, even for Sherlock. Bolt holes—the ones the homeless network knew about—had been unoccupied. Neither had he been seen at St. Bart's labs nor hiding-out at Molly's—Molly had been forthright this time. She had admitted she knew nothing of his plans.

They all had appeared as puzzled as he, all except Mycroft who had given him a succinct answer behind a straight face: "Can't say, John."

John had no doubt that Mycroft was telling the truth, no matter how one interpreted the words.

**88**88**

**25 December 2019**

"So, Mrs. Hudson," John took his former landlady aside when he and Rosie had stopped by 221B for Christmas. They had successfully distracted Rosie with a new coloring book, markers, and a small plate of assorted home-baked biscuits. John had checked Sherlock's flat in an attempt to detect if anything had changed since his last inspection. No belongings seemed to have been taken, nor any items moved. Even the dust remained intact, doubtless on Sherlock's instructions. A frustrated John had returned to Mrs. Hudson's flat to ask, "Anything more since the last time?"

"Oh, John. You know Sherlock. He forgets us when he's working." She had been glad John reopened the topic. There was no one else with whom she could share her pent-up fretting.

"You're right, Mrs. Hudson. That's probably it."

"Yes, dear. I know it's true. I just wish he had been a bit more, you know, helpful about where he was going. It's like I told you the last time you asked. He said he'd be away for a spell. He also said he'd be back. Not to let out his flat. Not that I could ever let out that flat to anyone else… it wouldn't seem right."

"Okay, Mrs. Hudson," John rested a comforting hand on the old woman's shoulder, "We know. Continue with what you remember…."

"He said goodbye. Gave me a peck on the cheek. Now, _that_ was unexpected." She lifted her boney hand up to her face where he had kissed her. "He doesn't usually do that unless he's excited about a case. And it would have to be a really good case, you know?"

"—Yeah, I know…a very stimulating, unusual case," John agreed as his thoughts ran on _...and quite likely more dangerous than even he had imagined!_

"I watched him leave, John," she continued. "He was empty handed. No luggage. He just climbed into a cab like it was an ordinary day. Why he hasn't come back yet is strange even for him…except for when we thought, you know, when he was gone…," She placed a finger on her lips to stop herself and focused her brown eyes, filled with hope, on John. "But you said you've received a text from him?''

"Yes. Today, as a matter of fact,"John nodded. "It's his first in several months…. It must be a burner phone. I can't text him back."

"Well, what does it say, John?"

John pulled out his mobile and showed Mrs. Hudson.

_It's Christmas! - SH_

**88**88**

**January 2020–February 2020**

Despite Sherlock's timely Christmas greeting, John couldn't shake a new uneasiness. It did not help that frequent well-meaning inquiries and general harping, mostly from Greg and Molly, had made John feel that not only had he overlooked something important last October in the park, but that he was failing in _his_ responsibility to keep tabs on Sherlock—for _them._

And once John was convinced something was odd, he became a bulldog with a bone, hounding Mycroft regularly for answers. To his surprise, Mycroft had let him.

The shadowy British official could have ended the mild nuisance of John's frequent visits with an imperious snap of his fingers. Having John removed or avoiding him entirely would have spared Mycroft from being exposed to the man's overt emotionalism— _Why can't people just remain calm?_ Instead, he had taken the meetings even though he refused to answer John's questions.

At some point—perhaps in preparation for any prolonged absences—Sherlock had advised his older brother that, on such occasions, John's sentiments needed to be properly handled—unlike the last time—and had required Mycroft do his _better_ best. His _last_ best was not good enough. The elder Holmes, having acquired a better understanding of the Sherlock-John dynamic since the Sherrinford incident, met his brother's stalwart defender each time John had demanded to see him. Mycroft could not help but admire John Watson's commitment. Although confidentiality prevented the "minor official" in British government from disclosing information, Mycroft had deemed that the least he could do was listen to the one man who cared enough for his brother that he made an absolute pest of himself—a true friend.

There had been another purpose in Mycroft's indulgence: allowing Watson into the office beneath the Diogenes Club had kept John's rants well-contained and permitted him verification of how much information about Sherlock's secret mission might be circulating in the outside world. Mycroft had seen it as intelligence gathering. Best of all, it was brought right to his doorstep.

"Can you tell me where he is now, Mycroft?" For the fifth time in as many weeks John had stopped by on his way home after a shift at the surgery.

Typically unencouraging, Mycroft glanced at John with an infuriating, almost-amused calm.

"In the UK? Overseas? In Eastern Europe? Deep undercover?" John continued probing, just to needle the impervious façade, though frustrated by his failure.

"Finished?" Mycroft waited until John nodded before folding his arms, leaning back in his chair and replying. "Can't say, John."

6**6

Agreeing that if either one heard from him, they'd be in touch, each time John had received a text, he rang Molly.

_It's Christmas! - SH_

_Machinery of justice awaits. -SH_

_Progress is slow. - SH_

_Trail's gone cold_. _\- SH_

_Small matters burden the mind. - SH_

_Isolation encourages impunity - SH_

"John, do you know what any of these mean?" Molly had asked after he had shared his latest text with her.

It was early February and John had just returned home from a date—it had gone well, but there were no sparks. Having paid the babysitter, his next-door neighbor's daughter, and sent her home, he was feeling an emotional letdown when his phone pinged with another text from Sherlock. Immediately he rang Molly. Her question made him shrug at his mobile. "I was kinda taking them at face value. Progress updates of sorts…. You think they're clues for something…else?"

"Just saying, John."

"God help him," John frowned. "I don't know about you, Molly, but he knows how dense I am. If these are clues, it just goes to prove that I'm the idiot he always thought I was. And he's an idiot for thinking I would understand them."

"I wouldn't say that, John,"

"Yeah, but Sherlock would!"

When John had rung off with Molly, he studied the texts. Whether they were actually reports about Sherlock's case as Molly believed or just phrases as he had told Molly, they most importantly served as assurances to let them know that Sherlock was still out there, still alive. Until Molly had suggested otherwise, John had found solace in receiving them. After her suggestion, he hadn't been so sure.

In between their conversations about Sherlock's texts, Molly would ring John if global news reports sounded like cases that would interest Sherlock. International coups, corpses of murder victims found in building foundations, drug rings, human trafficking busts—anything that wasn't run-of-the-mill, boring cases—the list was endless. Yet, Sherlock's whereabouts remained the biggest mystery. The longer Sherlock remained "out in the cold" and the more Molly fretted over his absence, the greater John's sense of culpability grew. Not having asked his friend what was bothering him on that fall day had been a mistake. And after, he shouldn't have let Sherlock refuse his assistance.

"…It's probably a difficult case, too risky to involve you, John…" Molly had protested when John had expressed his regrets during their next phone conversation.

"Right. If it required traveling incognito—"

"—and maintaining diplomatic discretion," Molly had finished for John, adding, "especially if he was penetrating a terrorist cell, he'd have to go alone."

"— _bloody hell_ , Molly," John swore, "that's what I'm afraid of …"

**88**88**

**March 2020**

"Is he working for you?"

Although John had spent months bombarding the elder Holmes with questions on the chance one might pierce the indomitable defenses, on this particular day, he had popped in after a difficult shift at the surgery. London streets were mostly deserted; people were forced to practice social distancing. The increasing restrictions about the novel strain of the coronavirus pandemic that originated in China had doctors everywhere on high alert. Confirmed cases in the UK meant John and his colleagues were working harder to keep their patients safe and to prevent the spread. The shortage of medical supplies was alarming. Before he was confirmed COVID-19 positive, the Prime Minister had been advising against nonessential contact with others and ceasing all unnecessary travel. Frustrated by all sorts of issues, including endless inquiries from the Public Health England, John was irritable when he arrived in Mycroft's office. He paced, trying to work off his vexation, but to no avail. Keeping nearly two meters away, he felt the need to vent and tight-lipped Mycroft was his closest target.

"Sod this, Mycroft! I've had a hellish few weeks. Spent a _full_ hour on the phone today with PHE. They're contact-tracing the infected individuals. That phone call backed up my overloaded caseload of patients and since restrictions are in place, only one at time is allowed into the surgery. Don't need to tell you how unprecedented this all is. Sick people deserve better! So, I'm in no mood for your ridiculous games. Tell me what the bloody hell is going on: Is Sherlock caught up in this pandemic, somehow? Why is he away so long? Does it have anything to do with a mission or has that been scratched because of the—?"

"—John, John!" Mycroft interrupted, palms patting the air as he rose from his desk chair.

Motion from the immovable iceman was so atypical during these visits that John froze. Hoping he had finally succeeded at breaking through the impenetrable wall, he leant over Mycroft's desk and glared. "What?"

"I'm not sure if you're aware?" Mycroft continued with serene disinterest. "But research has found that _venting_ actually makes one's anger worse. Might I advise that you try to control your anger instead? This will both dissipate your negative reinforcement process and help you regain a sense of calm."

Leaping across the massive desk to throttle Mycroft had momentarily skittered through John's thoughts. Instead, John blinked several times and pulled back so suddenly, the slight draft caused the single blank sheet of paper on Mycroft's desk to flutter slightly off center. Except for "disrupting" the tidy desk, John took no aggressive action. "Seriously?" he grinned sardonically. "That's all you can say?"

"No. Regarding the other matter," Mycroft smiled smugly, dismissing how close he might be to bodily harm, "Can't say, John."

"Y'sure?" John's fists curled, his eyes dark and menacing, but the absurdity of Mycroft offering psychoanalysis struck him as amusing. He could imagine Sherlock and he having a good chuckle at this. John swallowed his annoyance and toned down the frustration in his voice. "You know, Mycroft. You might have something there. Venting makes anger worse, then?" He laughed. It was a hollow sound. "Must be true. I don't feel any better."

With that, John spun on his heel, threw open the bunker door, and offered his host a parting comment. "If all else fails, Mycroft," he tucked his tongue in his cheek and rubbed the stubble on his chin, "You might consider psychiatry as a fallback profession," and left without another word.

After he had gone Mycroft exhaled, pulled at his collar in relief, and then straightened the sheet of paper John's swiftness had blown askew.

**88**88**

**April 2020**

John was both frustrated and exhausted during his next visit. At the forefront of the pandemic battle, he knew the tide of the Coronavirus patients had yet to show reliable signs of receding. Still, with the ExCel centre in London turned into a field hospital by N.H.S. and the Military for COVID-19 patients, they had a fighting chance.

Wearing his protective face mask so as not to infect Mycroft, he paced the bunker office and cocked his head, keeping his eyes on the older man who remained seated at a safe distance behind the desk. Pietro Annigoni's _Queen Regent_ glanced imperially over Mycroft's head. John stared back at the beautiful 28-year-old Elizabeth to catch his breath. "Is he in danger? Is he alone? Is anyone helping him? Has he caught the virus? Has something I've done put him in danger?"

"Why do you keep this up?" Mycroft asked after John had finished. "It's been nearly seventeen weeks now," he tilted his head back and peered down his nose at the pacing doctor. "You have enough challenges to preoccupy you... Besides, you already know what my answer will be."

John halted and grinned behind his mask, seizing his opportunity to brandish the most annoying and oft-used Holmesian question of all time. "Isn't it _obvious_ , Mycroft? This is the only place safe enough where my questions won't blow Sherlock's cover, whatever that might be. Keeps me from saying too much, even to Molly Hooper. Besides, I've come to consider them the therapy sessions the Holmes brothers owe me for driving me off my nut. Worse luck for you, Mycroft!"

Week after week, as penance for the anxiety both Holmes were causing him, John subjected Mycroft to—and to his credit, Mycroft endured—"therapy sessions" in the subterranean lair below the Diogenes Club.

**88**88**

**May 2020**

With the flattening of the COVID-19 numbers touted as a good sign, John arrived armed with a new strategy on his next visit to Mycroft's office. Unlike the other times when he had fumed over Sherlock's absence only to receive the off-putting answer, this time, he asked no questions. Instead, he stared silently into Mycroft's cold blue irises waiting, watching for Mycroft to make the first move.

"Well, what is it, John?" Mycroft sighed, expecting the usual litany of John's questions.

"I've worked out a plan. Rosie will be in good hands until I return. Let me go to him, Mycroft. I _want_ to help."

John had thrown a pebble in the placid lake of Mycroft's demeanor, causing a disturbance, a ripple effect. Mycroft looked down at his folded hands, his brows creased in mystification and he half-grinned in genuine gratitude. Before meeting John's gaze, he rolled his shoulders back and steadied his voice. "You can't. Sherlock wouldn't want that. Your primary responsibility is your daughter's well-being. Patience, John. It's only a matter of time, now."

John left dejected as ever by the truth of his situation. _Patience?_ His was running out….

**88**88**

**Late June 2020**

"Bollocks, John!" Now that pubs were reopening again after the COVID-19 shutdown, Greg Lestrade invited John for a pint. "You've had a _bloody hell_ of a run. We've all had. Glad to see you've been spared the illness."

"Same here. Can't believe we're finally in the clear, Greg. Treatments have made encouraging progress," John nodded. "Everyone wants things to get back to normal, but only time will tell what the _new_ normal will be."

"Sobering words," Lestrade said as he lifted his pint to salute John and drank

They were quiet for a while until Greg cleared his throat. "Now for something completely different—speaking of normal…what's up with Sherlock? It's been—what—seven...no eight months now? He's missing some good cases here. Definitely could use his help. Never told you what's up, then?"

"I told _you_ the last time and the time before that, he never said a word to me about this case, and Mycroft is inscrutable," John countered with irritation. He slammed down his pint just a bit too hard, spilling some on the table. "Anyway, just so we're clear, Sherlock and I don't _always_ work together, remember? I have a different life now, so when Sherlock disappears like this, I have to wait until he gets back, just like the lot of you, to know what's up."

"When he disappears _'like this,'_ you say," Greg lifted his pint and eyed John, "when was the last _'like this_?' You think he's off protecting us from something?"

"Who knows?" John shrugged, "He _claims_ only unusual cases intrigue him, but in the end, he's usually doing something for the greater good, and heaven help him _and_ us, if there's a personal reason—"

"—Thought he'd got over doing dramatic stuff like that," Greg scratched his head and looked askance at John.

"I had hoped," John caught Greg's look, "Well, unlike 'last time,' he hasn't completely disappeared. He texts me once, sometimes twice, a month."

"Yeah," Greg nodded, "but you said you can't text back. Each message is from different mobile numbers—burner phones"

John knew where Greg was headed and was sorry he had raised the topic.

"So, you don't _know_ if it's really him, do you?" Greg continued, "or that it's not an imposter or that he's not been taken hostage…or that it's a trap of some kind…?"

"Shut up, Greg!" John snapped and pushed his pint aside. It suddenly tasted too bitter to finish.

**88**88**

**July 2020**

A text in July was one word: _Soon. - SH_

"John, I just thought of something we haven't considered yet…," Molly sat across from John outside the tea shop near his surgery. She kept her eyes downcast as she stirred the milk in her cup. "What if he's been sick? And I don't mean the coronavirus; he left well before the COVID-19 pandemic…" When she lifted her brown eyes to meet his, John recoiled at the shocking thought. "What if he's had an unsettling diagnosis…? And he wasn't certain about his chances…? Or maybe he _was_ certain he'd survive, but wanted to get through the worst of it before he involved us?"

Stunned by her troubling insight, John fished his mobile out of his pocket. He scrolled through the text messages from Sherlock and reviewed them:

_It's Christmas! - SH_

_Machinery of justice awaits. -SH_

_Progress is slow. - SH_

_Trail's gone cold_. _\- SH_

_Small matters burden the mind. - SH_

_Isolation encourages impunity - SH_

_Game's afoot again. - SH_

_On fire!_ _\- SH_

"Oh my God, Molly," John swallowed hard, "It _was_ Christmas Day when he sent _It's Christmas._ But you might be right about these other phrases having medical interpretations. _Progress_ always seems _slow_ to patients during their medical workups. _Machinery of justice awaits,_ on the other hand, could mean…"

"CAT scans, MRIs, diagnostics of all kinds…," Molly interjected. "I don't like the _trail's gone cold_. Does it mean they don't know what's wrong with him?"

"Yeah, but what about the next one? _Small matters burdens the mind._ Could there have been a biopsy to determine treatment?"

" _Isolation encourages impunity,_ " Molly said with dread in voice. "With his immune system compromised by whatever he has and with the spread of COVID-19, could they have him in medical isolation? That sounds bad."

"No, but the one after— _Game's afoot again—_ is one of his positive statements—"

"Except, a 'positive diagnosis' is not usually a good thing in medicine, John. And _On fire_ could mean he has a fever. And then a two-month silence…until this last one."

"You know, Molly, let's stop this!" John threw up his hands and sat back in his chair. "This hardly makes me feel better," he sighed, biting his lower lip to keep his voice steady. " _Jesus!_ I feel worse. We're speculating. All of this! Sherlock would remind us that we are reading into the facts with preconceived notions."

Molly frowned, unwilling to stop speculating, "Well, maybe _soon_ means he's done with treatment, yes?"

"Yes," John agreed cynically, "or they're done treating him… but not necessarily with a guarantee of success…."

6**6

"Sherlock's been ill—" John confronted Mycroft in the soundproof office shortly after he had left Molly. He planted his hands on the enormous desk, "and no one thought to tell me!" he thundered, his eyes dark with fury.

Mycroft pulled back in his chair, his normally neutral face expressing surprise. "Good Lord! Grossly speculative, to say the least, even for you. What an imagination you have, John!"

"You're denying it, then?"

"Really, John, haven't you noticed? Heretofore, I've denied everything."

"Yeah. I've noticed. Charming, all of it." John felt ready to punch a wall, but didn't want to break his hands against the concrete bunker.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at John, making sure the tempest had passed before he leant forward on his desk with folded hands. "Listen, John. His last text is the truth. He's back. He'll be in touch… soon."

"Really? Why not now?" John worked to keep his voice steady although his relief at hearing Mycroft's assurances had almost undermined him. A sudden thought made him spin around to take in the subterranean office, wondering if Sherlock had been standing behind him all this time.

Mycroft knew why John had turned around; he waited until the disappointed man faced him again. "He's with our parents. He promised them…he'd go there first."

"Has he sustained injuries…? Is he well?" John's expression reflected his dread at the prospects he continued to imagine.

"He's safe, John. Let him tell you the details and about his missions… if he wants. I can assure you that _soon_ actually does mean _soon_. When he's ready, he will make that perfectly clear."

For the first time in his months of visits **,** John left Mycroft's office with hope hinging on the one word— _Soon.  
_

**88**88**


	3. Chapter 3

**BBC Sherlock: A Case of Separation**

**88**88**

**88**88**

**September 2020**

Rosie let out a piercing shriek, ripping John from his thoughts. Alarmed that she might be hurt, he saw her breaking away from her game of tag with friends and running toward him, her arms flailing.

"Dad-dey, Daddeeee! Llllloooooooooooook!"

John couldn't understand what she was saying behind her mask; all he knew was that Rosie's shrill cry sent a chill up his spine. As she drew closer, it was clear she was happy, not panicked.

"Rosie, what is it?" John knelt on one knee and opened his arms.

She whisked past him. He lost his balance, caught himself before he had made a complete tumble, and swiveled around.

Ten yards behind him Rosie leapt into the open arms of a thin, shaven-headed man, wearing a dark blue mask, who was also crouching in wait for her. Her momentum knocked him off balance as well and they both collapsed onto the ground. Rosie straddled atop him squealing with delight. Her mask puckered with air kisses she bestowed about the man's face as he lay inert. He slowly curled his long arms around her in an embrace when her kissing frenzy ground down.

_Oh. My. God!_ After his shocked double-take, John sprinted toward them. It was not the short run that made it hard to breathe as he stood over them, it was his equal parts disbelief and relief. Dropping the rucksack to the ground, he braced his hands against his knees and sucked in quick huffs of air. "Sherrrr…" He couldn't say more.

"See! I told you, Daddy!" Rosie called behind her before slipping off the chest of her prone godfather and kneeling alongside him.

His eyes bright behind the face mask, Sherlock seemed content just to lie on the lawn, his ankles crossed, shorn head resting on his folded arms. He did nothing to resist the little girl's hugs or her small hands cradling his face.

"You came baaaaack!" she squealed.

A tell-tale smile crinkled Sherlock's eyes as he accepted her sincere belief in him with measured satisfaction. "I said I'd _try_ my best, Rosie!"

"You're the best. Evy-b'dy says so!" she enthused in awe, laying her head on his chest, her arms around him in another fierce hug. "And you did it, just like you _promised._ "

Sherlock winced, not from the slight pressure on his chest, but because as any trusting child, Rosie believed in promises. However, given his failure record making promises and vows to John and Mary Watson, Sherlock attempted to differentiate with the child. " _Trying_ isn't the same as _promising,_ Rosie. I know they seem the same, 'cause I've made that mistake, too."

Her head popped up and her mood instantly shifted from elated to philosophical. "I know," she said with a solemn wisdom out of keeping with her age. "Daddy says he doesn't like when people make promises." She assumed a conversational tone as it they were playing tea time with her miniature china set, not lying on the lawn in a park at an unexpected reunion. "He says promises can break …'spesh-ally when they are too hard to keep. Like when mommies and daddies promise to be togeth-ah for-ev-ah, but then they can't."

A grim-faced Sherlock looked past Rosie at his silent friend, but John was massaging his forehead and shielding his eyes. "Your daddy is a wise man, Rosie. He's heard all kinds of promises. But he knows some people who make promises will _try_ everything they can to keep them. And that sometimes, even _they_ fail."

"I know _you_ really try," she pecked a masked kissed on his forehead, "even when it's hard. _Huh?_ " She gave a distasteful grunt when she touched the short, black stubble covering his head where his long hair used to be. "It's okay you cut your hair," she patted the bristles, doing her best to sound encouraging, "It grows back, doesn't it, Daddy?" She swiveled her head to look at her father.

John remained speechless; the lump in his throat would not go away.

"You missed my birthday, too," she turned back around to Sherlock and laid her elbow on his chest as if it were a table top. "I wasn't sad, but Daddy was."

Sherlock closed his eyes, "So sorry about that."

"I'm not mad at you," she petted his head again.

Warmed by her touch, Sherlock reopened his eyes. "I was too far away to get back in time. But, you remember? That day in the park? I whispered in your ear. You said it tickled. I said I might have to miss your party this year."

"My friends couldn't come either," Rosie admitted, "but Daddy said we can have the party lat-ah."

"Well, did you have cake, then?"

"O' course, silly! A birthday and no cake?" She giggled at the absurdity. "Mine was choc'late with pink roses."

"Roses for Rosie, of course. Your favorite! Sounds delicious."

"And Daddy saved you a special slice. With a rose. We had ice cream, too. That's in the freez-ah with the cake."

"Oh? Then I must stop by straightaway for my cake and ice cream," Sherlock replied, lifting his head, and this time, catching John's eyes. They held. The unspoken gratification that passed between them was for more than just saved cake.

_"_ Rosie! Rosie!"The cries of children hailing her, their arms waving, carried on the light, late-summer breeze, _"_ Rosie! Rosie! Come back! _"_

She jumped up, slipped her mask under her chin and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Coming!" she bellowed with ferocious intensity before turning back to her godfather and asking in the sweetest voice, "Do you wanna play tag with us, Unkel Sher-kel?"

"Haven't forgotten your special nickname for me, I see." Sherlock chuckled, the picture of relaxation and contentment as he lounged on the lawn. "Tag? Some other time, young Watson. Your daddy and I have to catch up."

"Y'sure?" her eyes widened as if she were torn between staying and playing.

"Very sure. Go on, now," Sherlock lifted his head off his arms and motioned with both hands. "Shoo, shoo. Go have fun!"

"Okay!" Without another word, she donned her mask and bolted back to play.

Sherlock watched her go under hooded eyes that closed when she was far enough away. His head dropped back on the late-summer-fragrant grass and he exhaled a weary sigh that became a groan.

Tight lipped with concern, John scrutinized his friend. John could tell that Sherlock's face was gaunt even behind the mask. His close-shaven scalp suggested institutionalization. Had he been an inmate somewhere? The faded marks on his wrists could have been old bruises from restraints. His shirt collar hung loose around his neck exposing faint lash marks. Fingernail beds were healing. John quickly counted all ten fingers—present and intact. Feeling some relief by his preliminary assessment, John remained guarded. Rosie was right. Sherlock's hair would regrow, but he obviously had endured physical duress and recently. How extensive his injuries were, external as well as internal, and how well, if at all completely, he would recover from them were the troubling unknowns.

"Need a hand up, then?" John strained to keep his voice level and slipped his light blue mask on.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his face brightened by John's astuteness. His eyes smiled up at the welcome sight of the familiar face. "Yes. Actually I do, John," and accepted the proffered hand.

John pulled his friend up—noting Sherlock's weight loss, possibly by over a full-stone—and placed a gentle, steadying hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock winced and grunted in pain but when he was standing independently, he showed no other outward signs of discomfort. In a conspicuous gesture of fitness, he dusted off his dark trousers and jacket and smiled sheepishly, "I will only tolerate one Watson greeting me like that."

"You know my _four-_ year-old pretty much laid you flat …" John said wryly, a creeping pride in his voice.

"Like father, like daughter," Sherlock grunted behind his grin. "Watsons tend to do that when they're happy to see me."

They exchanged amused glances and in that instant all John's restraints dissolved. He broke into a wide and glad smile that stretched the fabric face covering. "Welcome back, Sherlock," he laughed, giving in to sentiment. He pulled Sherlock close in an affectionate hug, taking care not to cause the man more pain, although he was unsure what injuries were hidden beneath the ill-fitting clothes.

They patted each other on the back, long enough to benefit from the comfort it gave them and to regain their composure. When they pushed away, they briefly shared warm gazes and clasped each other's forearms before letting go. Then looking around, they confirmed that, in 2020, two men greeting each other affectionately in a public park raised no eyebrows from the surrounding visitors. They stepped apart, their silly grins hidden behind their masks.

"You look like hell," the truth in John's jest was not missed between them.

"Yah shud see d'oddah guy," Sherlock replied in an authentic Red Hook-Brooklyn tough-guy accent.

"I'm surprised Rosie spotted you so quickly," John glanced down at his feet. His joy at seeing his friend was tempered with concern for Sherlock's physical appearance. "Not sure _I_ could—"

"—That's true. Moments ago, you looked right passed me as I entered the park," Sherlock countered, adding softly, "Don't blame you really. Even so, your mind was elsewhere …." Clearing his throat, Sherlock resumed with more vigor, "but children are quick. Your daughter, however, is extraordinarily perceptive and observant. She recognized me instantly from a mere wave…."

"Hmmmm. So…," John looked away and shifted his stance from side to side, "Where've you been, then?"

"Do you want the continents in alphabetical order? Or do you want the actual countries? Nevermind. If I told you, I'd have to kill you…"

"Hah!" John gave a mirthless laugh and wagged his head at the ground.

If John's furrowed brows were any indication, Sherlock's offhand deflection failed to amuse." Too cavalier for you, then?" he muttered, his lighthearted voice—like his feigned bravado—fading. "Can't _ever_ seem to get it right."

"I don't want cavalier," John croaked a whisper. "Never have."

"You're right, John," Sherlock conceded solemnly and waited for their eyes to meet before continuing, "You want real _answers_. To sum it up, this case—perhaps the most insidious global infiltration since Moriarty—tested me and took longer than anticipated."

John considered Sherlock's response as he picked up the rucksack he had dropped in his shock. His relief at having his friend back, notwithstanding, he was more concerned about the causes of Sherlock's peaky appearance; he folded his arms, "So how much can you tell me without killing me?"

Sherlock thought before he replied. "Enough to satisfy even your curiosity. Might take a while. Have you several days to spare?"

Before answering, John checked around them. Their out-of-the-way location ensured there were no immediate eavesdroppers. Stepping back to create social distance, John slipped his mask under his chin. "The coast looks clear. A synopsis would do. Right here and now. My curiosity can't wait. I'll get the details later."

Sherlock verified John's assessment of privacy and nodded. He too, slipped off his mask."A synopsis, then." He peered at the hopping game the children were playing; a nostalgic look came into his eyes. He clasped his arms behind his back with a small wince that was not lost on his friend. "It started off as a seemingly small counterfeit case. It was deceptively misleading. Turns out, it was the tip of an enormous iceberg and soon it became a very top-secret, complicated investigation. Don't blame Mycroft. He didn't assign it to me. I had discovered the Machiavellian plot and with Mycroft's help brought it to MI5. It soon fell under MI6 jurisdiction…however, by then my involvement had become pivotal…"

Sherlock rubbed his hands together with his old exuberance and went on with a satisfied grin, "Oh. This will fill pages _—no volumes_ —of your notebooks, John. It should keep your blog active for years. Even if some content must remain classified, I will give you an astonishing account of international intrigue, biological warfare, and espionage that will hold your readers spellbound!"

A sudden thought made Sherlock pause. He added in a stage whisper. "And there's a side case, John, which I'll be sharing as well. It concerns certain documents in my possession. I will require you to post a warning. It should say that if any attempts are ever made to get at and destroy these documents, you will have my permission to post on your blog the entire story about a politician, a lighthouse, and a trained cormorant. Be assured that there is at least one reader who will understand completely."

"You had more than one investigation, then?" Despite his amazement, John kept his voice low and looked around one more time.

"A juggling act of cases," Sherlock stated sotto voce, his face beaming with pleasure. "It's been brilliant!"

"How did you manage then? Not by yourself, I hope?" John's question tamed the excited gleam in Sherlock's eyes.

"Of course, John! It was too great a challenge for one man, too many side cases—so many eddies and currents to follow. I had substantial assistance—and when the need arose, emergency rescue services—thanks to Mycroft and his expert minions." Sherlock studied his friend's face for a moment before continuing. "It was far too dangerous a mission to involve you, John. I counted on you understanding this for Rosie's sake."

"Yeah, daily life was busy enough," John drawled, "But wondering, yeah worrying about the pandemic outbreak and if you were caught up in it somehow, and waiting…well, it became very hard to stand by and do nothing—"

"—Ah! I wouldn't call what you did, nothing," Sherlock rubbed a hand over the bristles on his shaved head and grinned. "Mycroft, a therapist? He said _you_ recommended it. Called your meetings with him 'therapy sessions.' Do you know he now thinks he has a gift for psychoanalysis? My God, the man's ego is expanding like his girth. He told our parents that he might consider it as backup career. He knows less about human nature than I do!"

"No! You're joking. Seriously?" John pulled back, his mouth open in amusement.

"While I've been away, you wrecked my brother!" Sherlock smirked, his eyes crinkled with as much hilarity as he permitted himself.

They laughed together as they had not done for too long a time. The mirth was cleansing for John who wiped the tears from his eyes. For Sherlock it was another matter, he held his sides and stifled his chuckles, although his eyes shone with delight.

After a few cathartic moans and sighs, Sherlock confided. "There's more….When I met you that day in the park, I came to tell you I might be going away for a long while."

"But you didn't tell me. You told my daughter," John countered in a quieter voice.

"True, it was hidden within an avuncular whisper about her birthday—but then, when I was about to tell you, I saw we were being watched. It was as I had feared. The window had closed. That day in the park, I had to leave quickly and make sure my tail stayed with me when you and I separated. After that, I couldn't trust my devices, my interactions, or my ability to contact you without drawing more attention to you and Rosie."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in a question, "You received my text messages, then?"

"I did," John nodded with emphasis, adding with his usual modesty, "but apparently I missed what Molly thought were embedded clues about your 'case' and what was detaining you." His eyes tracked his daughter who had in the moment stopped to do a silly dance before resuming her chase.

"No worries, as long as Molly got them," Sherlock replied with a straight face.

John gave Sherlock a hard look and flared, "What the _hell,_ Sherlock?"

Sherlock's goofy grin was a give-away.

John snorted in relief, "Molly was wrong then? They weren't clues?"

"She's a formidable ME with extraordinary instincts, John, but sometimes our Miss Hooper's romantic inclinations get the better of her logical, scientific mind. On such occasions, hers is a more active imagination than yours. No, I knew my audience—I know you! You're a direct man, so being direct is the best way to communicate with you. Skip codes and encryptions are not your strong points. I'm sure you'll agree."

"So, after that first text—'off on a case'—which was from _your_ mobile," John scratched his chin thoughtfully, "all the others were from burner devices?"

"Yes. I sent the first from the flat. After, however, burners were the only way to get my messages to you without revealing my locations, but my texts were never about the case. That would have been foolhardy. They were more like placeholders, merely to let you know I was alive—at least _one_ word. As my two-year silence enraged you that first time, it seemed the better course of action this time. If you noticed, I gave you several words in each, _weeeeell_ …." he intoned, "except for the final one— _soon._.."

John smiled, touched by his friend's uncharacteristic if odd thoughtfulness, but made no comment. The laughter and shrieks of the playing children filled the silence between them. Sherlock seemed content to stand quietly beside him to watch the playground antics. It all seemed so familiar, as if eleven months had not elapsed.

John cleared his throat, "What took so long?"

"Would've been back sooner—over three months ago—when the mission was completed but I was…," Sherlock confided with some reluctance, "detained part of the time…in hospital."

"Detained? For what? Did you contract COVID-19, then?" John asked in a pained voice, even though Sherlock's immediate presence dispelled the worst of his imagined fears.

"No...," Sherlock frowned and faced his friend, "and I was never touch and go, John. I assure you, Mycroft has orders…you would've been called….. It was just infuriatingly tedious."

"There'd have to have been complications to detain you so long," John wasn't speculating. Sherlock's winces, soft moans and fading bruises were telltale. "How extensive were your injuries?"

"Yes. You're right. Fractured ribs and collar bone, sprains, some contusions, among other things," Sherlock waved dismissively. "The minor injuries healed on their own over time while I was on the case. I've made a list for you …." Sherlock patted his jacket breast pocket, checking for it, "Will show you later. However, the real setback was three months ago when I contracted pneumonia—not COVID-19 related."

John's arched eyebrows compelled Sherlock to speed up his narrative, "—the result of my exposure during a rescue operation _unrelated_ to any of the previous cases. You see, some children were lost in a blizzard, local authorities needed help. Took twenty-eight hours to find them…they were mildly hypothermic when we reached them, but the smart kids had dug a hole in the snow and snuggled together for warmth. After that, my fatigued 'transport' capitulated… "

" _Where_ was this, then?" John's forehead creased in growing concern.

"The Yukon. Did you know that the Bering Sea is one of the most dangerous bodies of water in the world? Fortunately my escape from a gulag camp was aided by a sea-going captain and his vessel. They ferried me across just in time to assist in the rescue that was already underway when I joined in the search—"

"—Wait, huh? You _escaped_ a gulag, a _Russian_ gulag…?" John pulled back and stared in amazement, "to the Yukon?…The _Yukon_. Canadian Northwest Territories?"

"Technically, Yukon split from the Northwest Territories in 1898…"

"Sherrrrrlock…" John growled and shook his head with impatience, "Let me get this straight. Your contusions, fractures, sprains, and assorted injuries that you have on a list somewhere—"

"—Right here," Sherlock patted his pocket.

"—were sustained _while_ in the gulag…and after escaping to the Yukon, you participated in a rescue mission for some lost children, got pneumonia—you claim was not attributed to the pandemic—and stayed in hospital there for more than _three_ months to recover?"

"Weeell," Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "close enough. While I was at the secret military base in the Yukon, I received hospital care for both the pneumonia and minor fractures, had my head shaved yet again to clear up the head lice that just wouldn't go away, and after discharge, was housed in the barracks. The food there was _almost_ as unpalatable as the prison's. Talk about _nothing_ to do, you can image how extremely _boring_ it was. Unbearable!" Sherlock grimaced at the memory. "But it was the uncooperative weather and other security priorities which made my evacuation nearly impossible until a few weeks ago."

"Security priorities? Uncooperative weather?" John was finding the "synopsis" more disturbing than he initially had been led to believe.

"Only priority personnel on missions were permitted to leave due to violent ice storms and record-setting snow accumulations in June—despite the warmer temps in the Southern Hemisphere which caused glacier melts at an alarming rate. I digress," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Anyway, both air and ground transport were too dangerous during the bad weather and then nonessential personnel, like the rest of the world, were required to stay in place for the duration of the lockdown. Just had to wait it all out. Gave me time to refine timetables, charts, and schedules of all sorts about my adventures…that's when I've created my injury list for you, otherwise, it was all very tedious, as I said."

"So, Molly's instincts weren't completely off. You _were_ sick," John muttered. Responding to Sherlock's confused frown, he explained, "One of her theories for your prolonged absence was illness…"

"Only for a short while…" Sherlock sighed and inhaled the fresh air. "All good, especially now that travel restrictions from certain regions have been modified, I'm back. I have a curious constitution, John, work restores me, but idleness exhausts me completely."

Staring straight ahead at the children, John clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet as he processed Sherlock's disclosure. "Shouldn't have doubted," John gibed, "that you would return."

"Really?" Sherlock raised his brows in mock shock, although he noted John's good cheer had somewhat waned. "You doubted me?"

"A bit," John bobbed his head, broaching a topic he had wanted to avoid. "Oh, hell, yeah, sure. Didn't help that I had to field everyone's doubts the longer you were gone."

" _Everyone?_ Who's _every_ one? Not Mycroft?"

"No, of course not Mycroft, and surprisingly, not Rosie. Now I know why. But Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly,..." John waved his hands as if they were better at expressing what he meant. "Harping about you running into danger with save-the-world schemes—schemes I'm sure were all well-thought-out, down to the last detail because that's who you are…."

"That doesn't sound like _you_ doubted me, then."

"True, not initially, but eventually. Look, Sherlock. I've been with you long enough to know. You're both human and fallible. Someone needs to remind you that you're not a fictional superhero sleuth with superpowers and nine lives. I worry that you forget that about yourself and at the worst times. And that you might not come back, try as you might."

"But I _came_ back, John," Sherlock persisted, puzzled.

_"That_ you did," John agreed firmly, " _This_ time. And I'm all the more grateful for it."

"Fact-finding and pursuing investigations of the criminal element— _wherever_ they lead me—is what I do. It's who I _am_."

" _Wherever_ they lead you...so that's it," John nodded, then shrugged. "But is it _really_?"

"I don't understand. My work is my life, John!" Sherlock protested and then he recalled his own words of advice to his sister in the guise of "Faith Smith" years ago. " _Your own death is something that happens to everybody else. Your life is not your own."_

"—I get it. It IS _your_ life," John conceded with a nod. "I grant you that. However, you're not a spy; you're the world's finest consulting detective; your _life_ and that genius _brain_ of yours are important, very important. They matter the most. Didn't you once say, 'Crime is common. Logic is rare?' It's by using your rare talent to outwit the most nefarious that you are at your best. Let others—Mycroft's operatives—do the covert missions using stealth, weaponry, and brawn to go deep undercover into life-threatening situations."

In Sherlock's silence, John continued.

"Take _care_ of that 'transport,' Sherlock. It's irreplaceable— _you're_ irreplaceable!—" John stopped short, realizing what he had just revealed, then hit Sherlock with the heart of it, "to Rosie and me."

John clamped his mouth shut and gazed in the distance at his daughter, wondering if he had said too much. Sherlock Holmes _was_ his work, bigger than life, a cerebral giant who devoted himself to solving the world's most puzzling mysteries, an extraordinary detective who not only dashed into danger for intriguing cases but who endured the tedium of the false leads and dead ends. Granted, his incredible deductive and inductive reasoning more often helped him avoid those pitfalls. The world would be lost without the phenomenal skill of the legendary genius Sherlock Holmes. But it was to Sherlock the man—his friend—John had been speaking. He felt Sherlock beside him, appraising him, and tried to avoid the Holmesian scrutiny by watching Rosie play.

"Hmmm," Sherlock's soft interjection drew John's attention. Meeting John's glance, he gave him a fleeting smile and a sly look, "You're sounding more and more like Mycroft… _and_ my parents…."

"Do I? Must be from all those therapy sessions…," John chuckled with relief, noting the reference to family. Four years earlier, Mycroft's harsh " _This is family_ " to exclude John had compelled Sherlock to protest, " _That's why he stays,"_ proving the adage _friends are the family we choose for ourselves_.

"Mycroft said you spent time with your parents?" From the corner of his eye he caught Sherlock's nod. "Mummies and daddies. Safe zones," John muttered softly.

Uncertain he had heard correctly, Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow, "John?"

"Oh, just something Rosie said earlier today," John waved it away.

At that moment Rosie came running toward them. Sherlock watched her with interest. "Been away too long. Missed her significant child-development transition—cooperative play. She's doing well, John. Engaging in both the activity and with other children as playmates. She's more independent, too…"

Rosie arrived, slipped down her mask, and let her Dad wipe off her hands again with sanitizer before hugging him about the waist; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, the picture of happiness. "All done. Can we go home now, Daddy?"

"Quite, Rosie." John smiled at his daughter, "but I've an idea. This calls for celebration. What do you say, Uncle Sherlock?" His eyes traveled up and down Sherlock's too-thin frame yet again. "You look like you could use some cake and ice cream. Lots of it!"

"Oh!" She jumped up and down, "Yes!" She wedged herself between the two men, looking up at each excitedly. "Cake and ice cream! Let's go!" she urged them both.

John threw a mischievous grin at his friend, "You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase. The blood pumping through your veins. Just the three of us having cake and ice cream."

Sherlock smiled broadly and nodded in reply. "Lead on, my dear Watsons!"

Masks back up, they walked off, Rosie between them. John remarked softly to Sherlock, "A politician, a lighthouse, and a trained cormorant. Now _that_ sounds promising.

" **88**88**

**The End**

**88**88**

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note
> 
> Special thanks to my very knowledgeable Holmesian friend for not only warning me about the pitfalls of excessive sentiment and overworking story elements, but for taking the time to show me what she means. (And to all my special FF friends and readers who encourage me with their comments and constancy to continue writing.)
> 
> I must again compliment the brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am always greatly indebted for the series' dialogues.
> 
> (All disclaimers apply. I claim no rights to the characters from the BBC show.)


End file.
